


The One With Drunken Confessions

by orphan_account



Category: letsplay, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Markiplier - Freeform, markiplier imagines, markiplier preferences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 09:05:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7795699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No, no, no,” you shake your head and place your hand on Mark’s bicep. “It’s not the number of cards you have that’s the issue. It’s the fact that you have absolutely no idea how to play the game.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One With Drunken Confessions

“No, no, no,” you shake your head and place your hand on Mark’s bicep. “It’s not the number of cards you have that’s the issue. It’s the fact that you have absolutely no idea how to play the game.”

“Well then tell me!” he bursts out, throwing his hands in the air. You laugh and put your head in your hands, snorting all the while.

“I’ve been trying to. For the past half hour.”

Mark grunts in frustration and snatches the cards out of your hands. While he begins to put all of the cards back in the box, mumbling about how if capitalism weren’t so rampant in the world today, it would be _much_ easier to learn how to play a simple card game while intoxicated.

You hiccup with laughter and make an attempt to stand up from your seated position on the floor, in front of the coffee table in Mark’s living room. “I gotta pee,” you say as you grab onto the side of the table in an attempt to not fall over. “I’ll be right back.”

Mark takes a swig from the bottle of Fireball with one hand and shoos you off with the other.

In the silence of the bathroom, you begin to realize how drunk you actually are. You will yourself to sober up, knowing that you have to work in the morning, but it’s been so long since you got to hang out with _just_ Mark, and you missed your best friend.

Looking down at the chipped polish on your fingernails, you sigh as you finished your business. If you were honest with yourself, you knew that you’d been harboring feelings for Mark for a good year now. Alcohol always made that apparent. With the two of you being affectionate people in general, when both of you were drunk around each other, it was non-stop touching and giggling into one another’s embrace. When the two of you were drunk and _alone_ …well, that was an entirely different can of worms to open.

A month earlier, the two of you got drunk at a bar with mutual friends. You had shared a cab with Mark, and before you said goodnight, you made out for a good half hour on his porch. Neither of you had mentioned it since, nor had anything else happened since. Ever since that night, each time you were around Mark, you crossed your fingers at the possibility of kissing him again. You knew that your hopes were for naught, as neither of you would want to ruin your friendship for the chance at a relationship. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t make out, right? _Right_?

“Hey,” you pat Mark’s head as you entered the living room once again, plopping down on the couch next to him.

“What’s up?” he sighs, sinking back into the cushions. He offers you the bottle of cinnamon whisky, and you happily oblige the gesture, taking two swigs before setting it on the coffee table.

“What’s something you never told me before?” you ask, playing with the ends of your hair.

“Something I’ve never told you before?”

“Yeah. Like something you wouldn’t normally tell someone. Doesn’t have to be embarrassing.”

Mark furrows his brow as he thinks, almost as though he’s reaching deep into his memory for something he hasn’t yet confessed to you. “One time,” he begins, “when I was a little kid? I had this fixation with ears. I think it started with a commercial I saw for hearing aids. I snuck away to this hill we had behind our house and I started putting little rocks in my ears like they were hearing aids. I would just sit there with rocks in my ears for like, an hour at a time. Then I would take them out and go back home.”

You laugh in an explosion, causing you to abruptly clasp your hand over your mouth. Mark laughs with you, and when the two of you calm down, he asks, “What about you? What’s something you’ve never told me?”

“Hmm,” you think. “Childhood story?”

“Doesn’t have to be,” he shakes his head, grabbing the whisky. After taking a sip, rests it on his thigh so that it’s placed between the two of you.

“I’m not actually allergic to mushrooms,” you clench your teeth and wince. “I just really, really hate them and it’s easier to just say I’m allergic, rather than explain how I don’t like _any_ type of mushroom at all.”

Mark laughs, causing the liquor in the bottle to slosh back and forth. You laugh along with him, nodding your head when he asks, “Really?!” incredulously.

“Okay, I guess it’s my turn again,” he says. “Well, when I first moved to LA, I cried and called my mom every night for the first week. I was so worried that I had made the wrong choice. But, eventually, I was okay. I don’t cry anymore,” he shrugs in a way that makes you think he’s embarrassed about his confession.

“Oh,” you say. “That’s so sad!”

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, looking straight forward. You take the Fireball from him, take a long sip, and return it to his side.

“Did you ever wish we could make out again? Not as like…I don’t know, not like a couple or anything, but I kind of liked it when we kissed on your porch that night,” you say quietly. “I think about it a lot, actually. I think about _you_ a lot.”

He looks at you and you’re unable to read his facial expression. Your heart starts to race, and you want to erase the past thirty seconds from your mind - from your entire world. You feel heavy next to him, like rocks were placed in your lungs. Your existence hangs in the balance between him and the bottle of whisky, moving slowly like the air tends to do in the summertime.

“You think about me a lot?” his voice cracks under the blanket of whisky he’s consumed.

You nod slowly and begin to bite at the inside of your lower lip, a nervous habit you’ve never been able to shake. When Mark moves the bottle of whisky back to the coffee table and shifts so that his face is a mere six inches away from yours, you hope he can’t hear how fast your heart is beating.

Slowly, Mark moves his eyes from yours down to your lips and back up again. You lean into him, as he reaches his hand up, placing it on the side of your neck. When your lips touch for the first time in a month, your heart flutters inside of your chest and you would almost bet money on fireworks exploding off in the distance, sparks flying all around you.

But then again, it could’ve just been the whisky.


End file.
